


the show must go on

by attheborder



Series: sunshine on leith [1]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, British Comedy, Canon-Typical Scurvy, Edinburgh, Emotionally Significant Hikes, F/M, Fluff and Humor, M/M, MeetCute, Muttonchoppery, james and francis talking like 19th century sea captains in a modern AU bc they’re just like that, mild depictions of sexual harrassment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:21:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24152731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attheborder/pseuds/attheborder
Summary: “This place wants us dead,” he tells Fitzjames, over an empty glass he wishes were full again.“Don’t be so dramatic, Francis,” Fitzjames replies, giving Crozier a skeptical look. “It’s just a fucking comedy festival.”***The stakes are high, the budgets are low: yes, it's the Britcom AU that nobody asked for!THE GANG'S ALL HERE, AND THEY'RE DOING IMPROV.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, Harry D. S. Goodsir/Lady Silence | Silna
Series: sunshine on leith [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1742980
Comments: 56
Kudos: 87





	the show must go on

**Author's Note:**

> thank you [Poose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose) for the beta!

Francis Crozier is scared. 

He’s scared of what will happen if he doesn’t pull this off. He’s scared about his future, and about the life he left behind to pursue this wild dream, if any of it will remain by the time he returns. He’s scared for all the men under his charge, who depend on his leadership. He’s scared, almost imperceptibly, of the way James Fitzjames sometimes looks at him out of the corner of those clever eyes of his, of the judgement and disdain he believes he sees there. 

“This place wants us dead,” he tells Fitzjames, over an empty glass he wishes were full again.

“Don’t be so dramatic, Francis,” Fitzjames replies, giving Crozier a skeptical look. “It’s just a fucking comedy festival.” 

  
  


***

“Seven o’clock at the Terror stage! Come see the Able Seamen! Hey— you there! Do you want to come see some amazing improv comedy? Featured on Radio 4! Sold out the Adelaide Fringe, four weeks in a row— oh? No, that’s okay, sir, you have a nice one…” 

Goodsir’s arms hurt. He’s been flyering for, what, two hours now? And there’s only one left until he’s due at Erebus to run the boards for Blanky’s standup, and he really ought to keep going, but all he wants to do is find a lovely little cafe, get an espresso, and sit down and read his book. 

Crozier would know if he did that, though. Somehow, he’s pretty sure Crozier would know. 

“Sir John Comedy presents Bridgens and Peglar! The loveliest double act you’ll ever see! Five stars at Brighton! Half-past six at the Erebus stage, ma’am— would you like to— okay, that’s fine, see you around...” 

He is totally out of his depth. Somehow, the home-team advantage he’d felt he should rightfully have here, being Scottish by birth and all, has miraculously failed to manifest. With an early afternoon show to perform in and four evening shows to tech, plus a half-dozen more to flyer for, he’s barely been able to find time to shower and sleep and eat. 

It’s week two, though it might as well be year two for how much things have changed since they landed here, fresh off a full run in Toronto where everything seemed to be going their way, and Brighton and Hollywood and Prague before that. 

But Edinburgh,  _ the  _ Fringe, is a completely different beast. And yes, beast it is, indeed. Goodsir fancies he can see the shape of it: something huge and devouring, uncaring and monstrous. If they’re not careful, the Fringe will eat them up, and not even bother to spit them back out. 

God, he’s getting maudlin. He really needs to stop flyering. If Crozier asks… well, he won’t lie. That would be wrong. But it’s not as if he’s utterly incapable of self-care, for goodness’ sake. And if he doesn’t take a break now, the shows later will suffer for it. So, there. It’s all in service of the company. Crozier can’t say a thing about it.

Decision made, he braces himself for the worst part of flyering: the moment when you decide to pack it in, put your leaflets away and evacuate the bustle of George Square for higher ground, and then have to dodge all the other suckers still on the job. 

He turns the corner onto Nicolson, heading north, his head bowed in desperate avoidance of eye contact with any of his fellow wretched promoters. 

But he can’t look at his feet forever. The moment he lifts his head to navigate a crosswalk, there’s a man in a parka, middle-aged with tan skin and a graying beard, thrusting a flyer into his chest, babbling enthusiastically. 

“My daughter’s show! Tonight! Five stars, five stars! Come and see, come and see!” His accent is a mix of Scottish, and something foreign that Goodsir doesn’t quite recognize. 

“I’m really sorry, I’ve got to—” 

“Nobody came last night. She was so sad. Please, it’s only five pounds! For you, three pounds. Going on right now, inside!” He points just a few yards up the road, across the intersection, to a rundown-looking pub on the corner, front window papered over with flyers that match the one Goodsir is holding. 

“Oh, I’m afraid I have somewhere to be, I’m very—” 

“Please! I know you’ll love it, you look like you have good taste, if you don’t mind me saying!” 

“That’s very nice of you to say,” says Goodsir, with a hesitant smile, taking the flyer from the man and giving it a glance.  _ Lady Silence Speaks Up!  _ it announces, in a bright blue font against a white background. 

When he looks back up, the man is looking back with shining, eager eyes, awaiting his judgement. Goodsir can’t bear the thought of letting him down— his own daughter! 

“I’ll— yes, I’ll check it out, definitely,” he says, stowing the flyer in his jacket. 

“Wonderful! Yes, wonderful! You’ll love it!” 

Goodsir turns to go, his mind already focused on the cafe waiting for him up the road, the quiet corner seat he’ll find, the playlist he’ll pull up to listen to, for just a moment… 

But then the man falls into step alongside him, nodding happily, telling him he’ll come along with him, he was just about to head over to catch the show as well. 

And Goodsir is far too polite to try and beg off now, not with this enthusiastic fellow’s eyes on him, guiding him through the entrance of the pub, where he fumbles for admission in his pocket and is led through the door. 

Either the man had been lying about nobody having come last night, or he’d become the best flyerer of all time in one single day, because the room is packed. Goodsir can hardly see the stage, past the crush of drunken bodies in front of it. 

But ringing out loud and clear through the speakers is a voice— the voice of Lady Silence, presumably, paradoxically. A lyrical accent, Edinburgh, if he’s not mistaken, and an expert, practiced delivery to go along with it. 

“... and what he’d actually meant to say I cannot imagine, but what came out was,  _ Please stab me.  _ Now, never let it be said I wouldn’t turn down an opportunity to kill a posh douchebag in cold blood, but …. “ 

Goodsir fights his way through the crowd, following that siren call. Finally, he pushes past a snogging couple and finds himself at the front. 

And there, up onstage, is the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen. 

Long dark hair, pulled into a sleek low ponytail. A pale beige hoodie, light-wash jeans, the trendy kind that flare out and cut off mid-calf, revealing— Christ, he hates to call them  _ shapely,  _ like he’s some kind of swooning Victorian, but that’s what they  _ are _ — shapely ankles above stylish yellow trainers.

He only realizes he’s been staring, without even hearing what she’s saying, when she starts waving at him— at  _ him—  _ as if to get his attention. 

“You. You there. Front row, sad eyes. I’m sorry, it’s just that I can’t keep telling jokes up here while looking at  _ that  _ facial hair. Care to explain why it looks like you’ve attached two velcro strips to your cheeks?” 

Goodsir feels his face go red, underneath the accursed mutton chops. He mumbles a response.

“Gonna have to speak up, mate. What was that?” Lady Silence’s smile is bright and hungry, blindingly white underneath the stage lights.

“It’s for a bet,” he says again, this time loud enough for the room to hear, and is rewarded (punished?) by a roar of laughter from all around him. “First one in the company to give up and shave them off has to do an entire show in the nude.” 

(Collins had been the author of  _ that  _ bright idea, borne out of backstage marathons of some historical drama in Toronto. They’d all been drunk, obviously, and additionally far too high off of a recent five-star review in  _ Time Out _ to recognize it as the idiocy it truly was.) 

“I love that. Oh my god, do I love that, that’s _ so _ Fringe. If you lose, can you let me know, so I can come see?” 

He watches the rest of her set, heart pounding. At some point, he manages to tear his eyes away from her long enough to glance down at his watch, and discovers that if he doesn’t leave right this second, he’ll be late for Blanky’s show. 

As he pushes his way reluctantly back out of the pub, and emerges, blinking, into the falling dusk of another Edinburgh evening, Goodsir realizes, with a jolt, that he doesn’t even know her real name. 

***

“Christ, John, will you cut it out? It’s not as if you’re going to change anything by sitting there and praying. _ ”  _

Irving looks up, scowls at Little from across the green room, in which the Officers are lounging in that empty hour before showtime. Well, Little and Dundy are lounging. Irving does not  _ lounge.  _ He waits, patiently, until it is his turn to stride onstage and do his job. Which he does, and does well, and often wishes his friends would spare him a little slack in recognition of. The Officers certainly wouldn’t have won best international group at the Hollywood Fringe without his commitment and dedication and, yes, sheer comedic talent.

“I’m not— praying,” he says. “I’m just keeping up with things. Being responsible.”

“Obsessively checking the Red61 backend is not being responsible. In fact, I believe it to be a commonly recognized symptom of Fringe psychosis. Dundy, back me up here.” 

“The clicking is driving me mad,” Dundy grumbles. “If you’re really that concerned about our sales, John, why aren’t you down at Grassmarket, flyering with George and Graham?” 

In response, Irving shuts his computer with a petulant  _ tsk.  _ “I’m going to go watch the Seamen. You should come along.”

“What? No,” says Little. “I’ve seen that show enough times I could perform it off by heart.” 

“But it’s improv,” says Dundy.

“That’s the fucking joke.” 

“I want to see why they aren’t selling,” says Irving practically. “Crozier hasn’t seen their show here because it’s at the same time as Fitzjames’, and he’s always either watching him or down in the Great Cabin. There might be something he’s missing.” 

“Suit yourself,” says Dundy. “See you onstage.” He returns to whatever idiotic game he’s playing on his phone, and Little slips his headphones back on, resuming the edit of the podcast he does with Jopson. 

Irving marches downstairs to Erebus, where he stands at the back of the theatre, his arms folded as he observes. He’s seen the Seamen’s set dozens of times, but not since Toronto. They’re doing a bit about a dog now, apparently, complete with Evans on his hands and knees, and the rest of them calling on their mime and clowning chops to set the scene. 

Irving notices an odd listlessness about them, as the show proceeds. It might just be the dungeonlike environs of the Erebus stage, but they seem wrong-footed, somehow, washed-out and pale. As a senior member of the company, he knows from good comedy, and it’s not that the kids aren’t performing to the best of their ability, no— it’s that somehow, their overall ability itself has diminished. 

No wonder they haven’t sold above half-cap in days, if this is what they’ve been working with. Perhaps additional rehearsals are what they need, some good group exercises and team-building, an energetic excursion to a nearby wilderness on the next day off… 

Lost in his detailed analysis, Irving almost thinks he’s imagining it when, mid-sentence, one of the kids, Young, has suddenly got blood dripping from his mouth, oozing from his upper gums. 

Hartnell is trying to motion at Young, pointing at his own mouth, but Young doesn’t seem to understand, he thinks Hartnell’s just being goofy. And when Morfin catches sight of the blood, he straight-up faints dead away, which of course the audience thinks is part of the show as well. 

At this point the Seamen are getting more laughs than they have been all night, which is nearly as worrying as the way Young lifts a hand to his mouth and stumbles backwards when it comes away bloody, kept upright by the swift action of Manson’s steady arms. 

Irving looks desperately around, finds Des Voeux in the booth, who’s wide-eyed and seemingly paralyzed. He has half an idea of flinging the door open and shouting at him,  _ House lights up! Everyone out of here, now! Call 999!  _ and taking charge, like a real producer, saving the day. 

But before he can leap into action, the scene onstage reasserts itself. Morfin stirs, Manson hustles Young offstage, and Evans and Hartnell, bless their sprightly hearts, manage to keep the sketch going until Manson returns, sans Young, drags Morfin upright, and they start a new sketch, this time about a monkey. 

The confused murmurs of the audience swell but then eventually recede into polite laughter, and twenty excruciating minutes later, the Seamen reach the end of their allotted hour, and file offstage, one man down. 

Des Voeux comes down from the booth, moving against the flow of the exiting crowd towards Irving.

“What on Earth was all that about?” Irving hisses at him, eyes darting back to where the Seamen had disappeared through the curtain. 

“I have no idea. But someone’s got to tell Crozier, and I don’t fancy it being me.” 

Irving draws himself up to his full height, towering above Des Voeux by a good four inches. “I’ll do it,” he says confidently. “I’ll call him right now, and give him a full report.” 

“You do that, John,” says Des Voeux. “No better man for the job.” 

***

Crozier is used to these late nights. Festival season makes one nocturnal by force; when the shows run past midnight and the drinking past two, time to do business must be found even later than that. 

Between Crozier and Fitzjames on the tiny kitchen table of their rented flat are laid out laptops, flyers, magazines, notebooks full of financial calculations, scribbled lists of publicists and photoshoots and various industry contacts. 

“And it’s not just incidents like that,” says Crozier, after debriefing Fitzjames on what went down at the Seamen show, as per Irving. “You’ve been watching the shows, same as me. And they’re not  _ good,  _ James. We’re flagging hard. No energy, no spark. Even Blanky’s not getting the laughs he got in Prague.  _ Blanky!”  _

“Maybe it’s just a tough crowd this year. Next season might be better—” 

“If we don’t get the ticket sales up by the end of the festival, there won’t  _ be  _ a next season.” 

“You’re panicking over nothing. It’s only week two. We’ve got the boys out flyering every day. The reviewers will come around, and then we’ll be starred to high heavens. I’m pretty sure I’ve got whats-his-name from  _ The Scotsman _ coming to my show tomorrow—” 

Crozier slams his hand down, hard, on the table. “James, you  _ must  _ take this seriously. This isn’t just about  _ your _ show, as  _ brilliant  _ as it is.” He spits out “brilliant” like it’s a dirty word, like the taste of Fitzjames’ glowing reviews this season are poison in his mouth. 

“Compliment accepted.” 

“It wasn’t— never mind.” 

“You could call Sophy,” says Fitzjames. “She’d come up, if you asked, wouldn’t she? A review from her could turn things around like  _ that.”  _ He snaps his fingers to demonstrate. 

Crozier chooses to take the high road and ignore this obvious provocation, instead burying his head in his hands. If James—other James, the one Crozier still sometimes finds himself thinking of as the  _ real  _ James— were here, they wouldn’t be having this argument. Ross would know what to do, without having to resort to— to the indignity of  _ calling Sophy.  _

But he just  _ had  _ to go and fall in love with the winner of the Adelaide Best Newcomer award, and stay behind in Australia to start a new production company with her. And Crozier genuinely  _ liked  _ Ann, he’d thought she was immensely talented and lovely, which made it all the much more painful when she stole Ross away from him.

No, _ no— _ he cannot start to think like that. It will kill him even quicker than this festival, if he does. Ross stayed of his own volition. He was in love. Crozier knows, objectively, that love makes you do the strangest things. 

He spares a glance out the the tiny glazed window in corner of the kitchen. The sun will rise soon, creeping over the horizon; it will illuminate the silhouette of Arthur’s Seat, rising above the city like a great moored ship. 

Drops of delicious Scotland tap water beat a steady rhythm, falling from the leaky faucet into the basin of the sink behind them. Crozier sighs. Sometimes he wishes the days weren’t so damn long here. 

“It’s late, James. We should get some rest.” 

Fitzjames gets a look on his face, which he does often, and which Crozier never likes. “It’s not late. It’s early,” he says. 

“Don’t you start.” 

“I’m not tired at all. And I don’t think you are either. Let’s not waste time tossing and turning, Francis.”

“What are you proposing we do instead?” 

Somehow, twenty minutes later, Crozier finds himself across town, craning his neck up at the bulk of Arthur’s Seat, with Fitzjames beside him in the chilly, indigo dark.

They make a start up the hill without speaking; only the huff of their exertion as they climb, at first, and then eventually, a melody, slightly off-key, emanating from somewhere in the region of Fitzjames’ head. 

“You want me to ask what infernal tune you’re humming, but I won’t do it,” Crozier says firmly. 

Fitzjames frowns. “Oh. I hadn’t realized. Sorry, I’ll stop.” 

This tugs at something in Crozier, the idea that Fitzjames would forget himself like that around him. It tugs for a good two minutes, until finally he gives into the urge, and asks, “But what was it?” 

“Eh?”

“The song.”

“Oh.” The slant of Fitzjames’ mouth tightens, before relaxing into a slightly embarrassed smile. “‘Corcovado.’ Getz & Gilberto. My head’s own elevator music, I suppose.” 

Midway up the hill, they stop for a water break. After passing the bottle to Crozier, Fitzjames takes off his jumper, and Crozier is treated to a glimpse— momentary, yet infinite— of Fitzjames’ stomach, pale and lightly muscled, a trail of dense, dark hair visible above the line of his underwear’s elastic. There are some odd bruises, dotting his torso, but before Crozier can look any closer, Fitzjames is pulling his shirt back down, tying the jumper around his waist, and letting out a sigh. “God, what is wrong with me? I swear, I was in shape at the beginning of the season.” 

“I remember.” And Crozier does. February in Perth, every morning, somehow managing to rise before the rest of them, strap on those ugly ergonomic headphones and jog two miles, returning to the flatshare practically vibrating with endorphins, his hair somehow still bloody perfect. Absolutely infuriating, and very hard to forget.

“You don’t look too steady yourself,” Fitzjames remarks, which calls to attention the fact that he’s been looking. 

And it’s true— Crozier isn’t feeling so hot, if he’s being honest with himself. And sure, he’s not exactly the paragon of health at the best of times, but he’s never felt like  _ this  _ before, like he’s on the verge of collapse no matter how much sleep he gets. Like the harder he works, the more difficult everything seems. 

“It’s this festival, James, I tell you. This city. It’s got its teeth out for us. And yet here you are, willingly dragging us up its spine.” 

“Well, maybe I just wanted to see you sweat for once.” 

They resume the hike, and Crozier hauls himself up a stone step, grunts in exertion instead of replying. 

“Everything just seems to come so easy to you,” Fitzjames goes on, after a minute’s pause.

“Does it? Come easy?” News to him, if it does.

“You know. This job, the stages, the shows. It’s like you were born to it. I— I know you weren’t eager to keep doing the job without Ross, but we are all grateful that you stayed on. Without you, we wouldn’t have made it past Hollywood, I’m sure.” 

Crozier’s been clamoring for Fitzjames’ recognition ever since Ross ditched them in Adelaide, but now that it seems to be arriving, he finds he’s not sure what to do with it. Not to mention, the fact that he might well be far too winded to even really appreciate it. 

Eventually, with burning lungs and weak legs, they reach the top of the Seat together, and not a moment too soon— the sun is breaking over the horizon as they stand at last, on that broad, flat peak, lighting up the rooftops of the city below. 

“How can you be such a pessimist, when there’s such beauty close at hand?” Fitzjames says. “You’re the talented producer of a talented company. It won’t go unrecognized, I promise you.” 

“I wish I could believe you, James,” Crozier answers, and looks over to see the facets of Fitzjames’ face are illuminated, gold and red and pink, as he gazes out appreciatively at the view. 

Beauty close at hand, indeed. 

***

  
  


“I’m fine. I swear I’m fine,” Young is insisting. “I can do the shows today. I don’t want to let anyone down.” 

From the doorway, Goodsir is watching Fitzjames watch Crozier watch Young, sitting on a grimy armchair in a bedroom crowded with air mattresses and hammocks. This flat, 4A, one of three Sir John has let for the festival, is shared by thirteen male comedians between the ages of 18 and 24, and absolutely reeks— body odor and rotting food and an unhelpful, cloying overtone of cheap aftershave. 

Goodsir’s flat is the next one over, 4B, which is shared by twelve male comedians between the ages of 25 and 30, and is faring only slightly better in the smell department. 4C, where Crozier and Fitzjames and other more senior members of the company roost, is alternately called “the wardroom” and “the old folks’ home,” and smells  _ all right,  _ if one had to put a word to it, but only in direct comparison. 

“You’re sure, David?” Crozier says.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure.” 

“I hope to God you are, because with our current sales, we can’t afford to cancel a single show. We’ll be so deep in the red Jane will string us up by our entrails the minute we get back to London.”

Goodsir steps forward now, to tap Crozier politely on the shoulder. 

“Excuse me, Francis, I think—”

“Not now, Harry. Don’t you have some flyering to be doing?” 

“Yes, that’s later, but listen, I’ve just spoken to some of the Marines in 4B, and they’re reporting similar symptoms to David here, I wanted to ask if you’ve heard of—”

“I really don’t think this is anything you need to be worrying about,” Fitzjames says, turning to Goodsir while Crozier continues to speak to Young in hushed tones. “Just stick to your responsibilities. That’s the only thing that will ensure we pull this off, everyone doing their part.” 

In the dim hallway outside, Goodsir pulls out his phone, and considers, just for a moment, looking up Lady Silence, seeing if he can find some sort of contact information for her. 

But then he thinks of the stacks of flyers waiting for him back in 4B, and the reprogramming of the light board in Erebus he promised he’d help Des Voeux with, and the most recent changes Stanley decided to make to the Doctors’ set that he still has to memorize, and puts his phone away with a sigh. 

***

The final show of the night, the Marines’ sketch revue, doesn’t let out until quarter-past one in the morning, and after that Goodsir has to spend at least half an hour with Collins mopping up the cracked eggs and spilled milk that comprise the greater part of the show’s sense of humor.

When he finally makes it downstairs, the Great Cabin is in full swing, bustling with off-duty comedians and techs, rowdy and sloshed after another day of disappointing sales. 

And there, seated at the bar, is Lady Silence. 

Goodsir notices her first of anyone; she draws his gaze like a magnet. But then he sees the rest of the picture. There’s a gaggle of Sir John boys crowded around her: Manson, Armitage, Hartnell, and Hickey. They’ve got smiles on their faces, great big loutish smiles, and half-empty pints in their hands to match.

Manson crows drunkenly as Goodsir approaches. “Harry! Mate! Look, we’ve made a new friend!” 

“We’re trying to get her to talk,” Hartnell says, his ruddy face made even rosier by beer. “We think she’s Filipino. She doesn’t speak English.” 

“Such a shame,” Hickey says. “We can still have fun, though, can’t we?” 

Lady Silence glares at Hickey, then returns to her drink. 

“Lovely lady, did you see our shows today? Did you like what you saw? We’re here all month long, in case you were wondering,” Armitage says. He’s leaning in rather close to her now, and it’s making Goodsir very nervous, though he’s not sure it’s his place to interfere. They aren’t actually  _ doing  _ anything, after all… 

But then— Armitage dares lay a possessive hand on Lady Silence’s shoulder, and at once Goodsir feels something hot and immediate screaming in his chest. His eyes dart from Lady Silence’s unreadable, stony expression, to Armitage’s leer, to the nearly-empty cups clutched in the lads’ hands, and comes to a decision. 

“Let’s get a round over here!” Harry calls loudly to the bartender, with a wave of his hand. 

“Ooh, Harry coming in clutch!” Manson warbles, and the other boys cheer as the pints are poured and paid for. 

And while they’re thus distracted, Goodsir looks to Lady Silence, and tips his head urgently towards the door. She nods, sets down her drink, and slips away, disappearing unnoticed out of the side door that leads right out onto Cowgate. 

Assured of her safety, Goodsir now raises a toast to Sir John, congratulates the assembled performers on another day down, listens to them complain about half-empty rooms and reel off litanies of odd aches and pains, which he notes down mentally, adds to a certain fast-growing file inside his head. 

He tries to lose himself fully in the camaraderie, but that’s never been the easiest thing for him, not even after a full season of traveling and working and sleeping in the same crowded flats with these men— and it’s especially hard now, after seeing the way they chose to treat Lady Silence, fearing no consequence. 

So as soon as he can be sure that their earlier quest for the undeserved attentions of Lady Silence has fled their soused craniums, Goodsir bids them goodnight, and leaves them to their revelry. 

Somehow, he’s is not surprised to find Lady Silence waiting for him outside the stage door when he steps out. 

She’s leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette. Goodsir hates smoking, finds it an abhorrent trait, ugly at best and mortally irresponsible at worst. But somehow, when Lady Silence does it, it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

“Why did you pretend you didn’t speak English?”

She exhales a flawless ring of smoke, which lingers for a crystalline moment before dissipating into the dark. 

“If you were paying closer attention you would’ve noticed I wasn’t doing any pretending,” she says. Her brogue is softer now, less exaggerated than it was up onstage. It’s still beautiful, though. She’s got a beautiful voice. Goodsir wonders if she ever sings. “I didn’t want to talk to them. I shouldn’t have to, if I don’t want to. And when I stayed quiet, they just assumed. Because that’s what people do, when they see someone who looks like me.”

Goodsir doesn’t know what to say, so he just says, “I’m sorry.” 

She looks at him, eyes dark and unreadable. “Why are you apologizing?” 

“They’re my friends. I should have been more stern with them—” 

“You did enough.” 

She offers him a cigarette; he declines it, as politely as he possibly can, and thankfully she doesn’t seem to take offense. “What’s your name?” she asks. 

“Harry. Harry Goodsir.” 

“I’m Silna.” 

She offers a hand to shake.  _ Obviously, _ it’s to shake. So Goodsir doesn’t know what the hell comes over him, when he takes it and raises it to his mouth, and gives it a gentle kiss. 

“Oh,” she says.

He immediately lets go of her hand like it’s a hot iron, stammering, “I’m so sorry, I don’t know  _ what  _ came over me, I really, er, look, I should go—”

“No,” she says, and she’s smiling now, a reassuring sight, though not quite enough to erase his deep shame. “No, I think I genuinely liked that. I did, yeah. I feel so fucking respected right now, I might faint.” 

“Please don’t do that. I’d feel awful.” 

“I’m sure you would.” 

He manages a smile. “Can I…. walk you somewhere? Home, maybe?” 

“Home? Why, are  you  tired of me already?” 

“Oh, no, no. Definitely not.” 

“Good. Let’s go find somewhere else to drink, then. I know a place close by, it’s very locals-only, but I think they’ll let you in if you’re with me…” 

  
  


***

Crozier doesn’t know how it’s happening, but the shows are getting  _ worse.  _ Even spending all of their money on flyers and posters and social media ads, they’re not pulling the same numbers they were in Canada or America. 

All of the good promotion that had surrounded them like a puff of perfume the whole year seems to have utterly evaporated. Fairholme, who’d worked all sorts of magic in Australia, pulling in 5-star reviews left and right, now seems to be running around like a chicken with its head cut off, unable to tempt even the most indiscriminate of outlets in to cover the shows. 

No leads. No luck. And he’s tired, he’s absolutely exhausted. The only thing to be grateful for at the moment is that he’s not actually  _ in  _ a show this season; he misses performance with a deep ache but he’d have been dead and buried as soon as Ross was gone if he’d had to get up onstage alongside all his other responsibilities. 

If everything continues on this trajectory, and really and fully goes to shit, he might have some leverage over Fitzjames. Some genial  _ I-told-you-so  _ ribbing as they both go down in a sinking ship together, as a consolation prize. 

But it’s strange. He finds even that idea, which in the past he might’ve found intoxicatingly appealing, doesn’t help at all to lessen the anticipatory hurt of the failure that looms ahead. 

The next night, Crozier slips inside Terror during Blanky’s set, when he’s in the middle of his classic crowd-pleaser about the time he got trapped in a chimney. Even though he’s heard the story about five million times, and knows exactly which parts are true and which are made up for comic effect, it still can make him laugh harder than almost anything. 

“Henry,” he whispers, nodding to Collins at the tech table. The room is smaller than Erebus, so instead of a booth there’s just a desk behind the last row of seats. “How are you holding up?”

Collins looks up at him with a shrug. “At the very least, I’m not about to lose the bet,” he says, tapping the side of his face, which is furred with a majestic mutton chop.

“You are a bunch of lunatics,” Crozier replies, rolling his eyes. He still can’t believe how many of the lads have taken Collins up on his ridiculous wager. 

“Obviously,” Collins says. 

“And I suppose that makes me the looniest of them all.” 

“I don’t know about that,” says Collins. “I overheard Cornelius the other day telling Billy that his ritual before he goes onstage is to close his eyes for five minutes and play a slideshow he’s memorized, inside his head, of the tropical vacation he’ll take when he’s famous. Complete with piña coladas, Hawaiian shirts… ridiculous man.” 

Crozier is about to laugh, say something along the lines of  _ looks like I have competition, _ but then his producer senses light up, and he looks up instinctively to the stage in time to realize Blanky’s standing there, waiting awkwardly for the lighting cue that leads him into the next scene. 

“Harry! The cue, man, the cue!” Crozier hisses, leaning across the desk to Goodsir, sitting on the other side of Collins. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Goodsir whispers, hands flying across the board to trigger the cue. “Was distracted—” 

“It’s all right,” says Crozier reassuringly. “Happens to the best of us. I’ll leave both of you alone now, then, keep up the good work.” 

It rankles him, it really does, that there are any empty seats left at all, at a show this excellent— but at the very least it means he can easily find one to sit down in, without disturbing anyone, and watch his best friend be a damn genius, forgetting about everything else that troubles him, at least for a little while. 

***

It’s early, for the Fringe. 10AM in flat 4C and Irving is sitting in an armchair, drinking terrible tea and looking out over the sprawl of sleeping comedians that lines the floor. 

He is thinking diligently about his career goals, and additionally, how much he hates the damn rain. It had started pouring down buckets sometime in the night, completely ruining his plan for a meditative walk along the Water. 

How bloody hard can it be, he muses, to hold a massive festival in a month that  _ isn’t  _ absurdly inimical to outdoor sports? None of the other cities they visited this season seemed to have a problem with it. 

Jopson has wandered over from 4B again, and is going over production notes with Crozier at the table on the other side of the room. Irving spares a moment to wonder idly, not for the first time, if Jopson’s tearjerky, happy-sad one man show would still be such a crowd-pleaser if he had eyes that weren’t so preternaturally oceanic. It seems to him they should count as cheating. 

There’s movement at the door, and the fluffy silhouette of Harry Goodsir enters, annoyingly tentative as always. Crozier looks up, in time to witness a girl entering behind Goodsir, a tall stranger with dark hair that Irving doesn’t recognize. She’s carrying a large box that looks quite heavy.

“Harry, we’re busy—” Crozier begins, but Goodsir holds up a hand.

“Francis, this is important. I know what’s wrong with all of us.” 

Crozier lets out a disbelieving bark of a laugh. “That’s quite a pronouncement for this early in the day, Harry. Care to back it up, or can I return to what actually needs doing?” He indicates Jopson and the notes, but Goodsir seems to take no notice. 

“Let me ask you a question. What have we been eating for the last  _ nine months?”  _ he asks. “Shit. Nothing but canned, microwaved, frozen, bland  _ shit.”  _

Crozier frowns, at this old chestnut being dug up again. “Harry, if this is about— look, you _ know  _ we’ve had to keep the food budget down, in order to pay for production and advertising. We’re an independent comedy company. We can’t  _ afford _ to eat like kings, Deliveroo whenever we want, we’re not the fucking Footlights—” 

“Thomas,” Goodsir turns to Jopson now, “you’ve been a bit poorly, lately, haven’t you?” 

“Well, yes, but it’s towards the end of the season, we’re all just tired—” 

“Wrong! I figured it out, last night, you see,” Goodsir says, cutting Jopson off and turning back to Crozier. “After Henry said that thing about Cornelius, and pina coladas. I thought, when’s the last time I had a cocktail? Something with a lemon in it, or a lime?” 

“What on earth are you talking about?” 

“Scurvy,” announces Goodsir triumphantly, his eyes agleam. “That’s what everyone’s got. That’s why our shows have gone to shit, that’s why David’s got bloody teeth. That’s why you, Thomas”— and he grabs Jopson’s bare arm, skinny and pale, and holds it up for everyone to see— “have got these bruises. That’s why James has been going through so much hair product lately, when he used to not need any at all.” 

“That is  _ ridiculous,  _ Harry,” Irving says, setting down his mug. “It’s the twenty-first century. Nobody gets  _ scurvy.”  _

“John, I know for a fact you’ve been drinking nothing but tea and eating nothing but Pot Noodle for weeks. Call it monastic or whatever you like, but it’s certainly not doing your skin and joints any good, is it?” 

That girl of his is standing beside him, utterly silent, just looking out at the dirty, cramped room with an expression of amused contempt. 

“It’s been with us since Hollywood, I’m sure of it, and it’s only just catching up to us now, at the worst possible time,” Goodsir goes on. “But the good news is— well. We better just show you. Silna, would you?” 

And right onto Irving’s unoccupied air mattress at her feet, Goodsir’s girl upturns the box she’s carrying, and out spill dozens of ripe limes and lemons, bottles of orange juice and V8, cartons of strawberries, heads of raw broccoli in plastic bags. A few seconds later, a veritable vitamin bounty is now covering Irving’s empty mattress, as well as the carpet around it.

“These will need to be distributed to every single member of the company, consumed with regularity, and replenished when necessary. Francis, I’m willing to do the fundraising myself for an extension of the food budget if I need to, but unless we want a repeat of Young and the continued diminishment of our company, we  _ must  _ act quickly.” 

Crozier is staring at Goodsir. Jopson is staring at the bruises on his arm, as though seeing them for the first time. Irving is staring into the middle distance, without a single clue as to what the heck is happening.

“Well, fuck,” says Crozier, slumping back in his chair. 

Goodsir nods to him, nods to the girl, and then the both of them are gone, leaving only the massive pile of fruit and veg to remember their visit by. 

In his sleeping bag in the corner of the room, Hodgson stirs, and sits up. 

“Was there someone here? What’s going on?” 

“Apparently, we’re all dying,” Irving says drily. 

“Oh,” says Hodgson. “Okay. I’m going back to sleep now.” 

  
  


***

The rain clears, sometime in between the Great Scurvy Revelation and the starting hour of Goodsir’s daily flyering duty, and so he’s able to walk with Silna through Grassmarket, finding a dry bench to sit on and watch the foot traffic flow by. 

“You must get sick of it, after a while.” 

“Sorry?”

Goodsir waves a hand, indicating the masses of people, swarming the square and streets. Buskers, flyerers, tourists gawking up at the Castle, posing for photos with performers, wandering in and out of the pubs and takeaways and tchotchke shops. “All these people, coming into your hometown, taking over.”

“I mean, it can get annoying, yeah,” Silna muses, “and you can spend weeks wanting to punch every American you see… but the most beautiful thing about the Fringe is that it’s temporary. It comes, it goes. And then it comes again, at the moment when you actually finally start to miss it, even when you promised yourself you wouldn’t.” 

“I see.”

“And, you know, I suppose getting the place well and fucked up for one month a year makes me treasure the other peaceful eleven that much more.” 

She’s saved an orange from their hoard for them, and is peeling it now with a small bone-handled pocketknife, the rind spiraling out in loose, graceful arcs. When she’s done, she plucks out a slice, and hands it over. 

Goodsir takes it from her. He holds the sticky wedge up to the light, admiring its natural symmetry, the construction of its membrane and curvature, the vibrancy of its flesh, before popping it in his mouth to savor.

“Scurvy,” he says wonderingly, after swallowing it down. “I can’t  _ believe  _ it. Why didn’t I realize sooner?” 

“Don’t sell yourself short, Harry, you’re a very smart lad,” says Silna. “You figured out something on your own it might have taken an actual medical professional ages to work through.” 

“I’m just a comedian,” he demurs. 

“What a coincidence,” Silna says. “So am I.” 

He reaches out to grab another slice of orange, but with her free hand Silna grabs his wrist, tugs him close, and plants a gentle kiss on his unprepared mouth. 

When she pulls back, he’s grinning. “D’you want to come see my show today?” he asks, the words tumbling out in a mad rush before he can lose his nerve.

She runs a hand down his cheek. “Ah, but you haven’t lost the bet yet, though.” 

“Oh. Well, if that’s what it’ll take—” 

“I’m kidding, silly. Of course I’ll come. I reserve the right to not kiss you again if you’re terrible, though. Can you handle that?” 

“I’ll take my chances,” he says. “I’m fairly certain we’re not terrible. We did get five stars in Prague…” 

  
  


***

Crozier walks into the greenroom just before Fitzjames’ show to find him chugging from an open bottle of fruit juice, and feels an inexplicable rush of goodwill. He’s still not quite sure if he’s convinced Goodsir is altogether correct— scurvy, it seems so freakishly unlikely, like getting smallpox or polio— but he supposes it must relieve him to see Fitzjames taking precautions all the same, for the sake of the company. 

“The man from  _ The Scotsman  _ is definitely here tonight, by the way,” Fitzjames tells him. “Graham texted me that he saw him in the lobby.” 

“Wonderful news,” Crozier says, sincerely. “We’ll have half the Seamen pasting up five-stars on our Meadow Walk posters by morning.” 

“Will you watch?” Fitzjames asks. “Or are you headed to the Great Cabin to brood?” 

“Wouldn’t want to sit there and distract you, thinking of my judgement.” 

Fitzjames shakes his head. “You wouldn’t— distract. It’d be an encouragement, if anything.”

Crozier is spared having to find a reply to that by his phone buzzing, with a text from Little. As he reads, it he notices the time. “You’d better head down,” he tells Fitzjames. “I’ll slip in once you’ve begun. Need to keep an eye on that journalist, make sure he’s appreciating it properly.” 

Fitzjames gets up, and grabs his brass-buttoned show jacket from the back of his chair, shrugging it on, before leaning forward towards the mirror and beginning to fuss with his hair. 

Exhausted, frustrated, and very possibly scurvy-ridden though he is, as low as ticket sales are, Crozier thinks he might be the luckiest producer at the festival. No matter what the reviews say, no matter how much money they may lose on this run, he is lucky just to be here at all, with this company, with these men. 

“Oh, Francis, before I go, I was thinking,” Fitzjames says, as he makes for the door. “We should throw a party. For the whole company. Some kind of carnivale, to celebrate the end of the festival season…” 

  
  
  
  


**TO BE CONTINUED**

**Author's Note:**

> Three years later, Blanky going full Mortimer on WILTY: “I was once accurately diagnosed with scurvy by a 27-year-old comedian.” 
> 
> David Mitchell: “Wait, how old were _you?”_
> 
> Blanky: “Old enough to have believed it was all just the natural breakdown of my decrepit body.”
> 
> I don’t know where Sir John’s two stages actually are in the city, but as most of this is based on my experience at Underbelly Cowgate & its environs, I guess I was imagining somewhere around there. Also, the coffee shop Goodsir was headed for is BrewLab. Also also the flats are somewhere around Pleasance. 
> 
> find me doing my daily terrorscreaming on [tumblr](http://areyougonnabe.tumblr.com) and [twitter!](http://twitter.com/areyougonnabe)


End file.
